Free short stories about Generation End

Archive for the ‘How I Did Stuff’ Category

Book Recommendations / Book Suggestions

These books have shaped me in one way or another. In a way, these books may shape you, too. So read them at your own risk.

Norwegian Wood

book recommendation - Norwegian Wood Haruki Murakami

By Haruki Murakami. I read this when I was freshly dumped and overseas, on my own. Murakami writes a lot of weird shit, but Norwegian Wood seems to be one of his most grounded books. My favourite part of the book is near the end, with the woman and the guitar.

Read Norwegian Wood.

Ham on Rye

book recommendation - Ham on Rye Charles Bukowski

By Charles Bukowski. I was a bit of a stranger to Bukowski until I stumbled into another book of his, Women. The first chapter of this book was what seduced me, and the hilarious chapter about the woman in the swimming pool kept me going.

Read Ham on Rye.


book recommendation -1985 by george orwell

Soviet Russia for Dummies.

Read 1984.

Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close (not the movie)

book recommendation - Extremely Loud and Incredibly CloseJonathan Safran Foer

By Jonathan Safran Foer. I read this book when I was a little younger and couldn’t let go of it. The story of the grandparents and the way the words spill to form something else completely made me fall in love with the art of love itself. I wonder if he’ll ever write another book.


book recommendation - Glamorama Bret Easton Ellis

The first book I’ve read by Bret Easton Ellis. What an age to read it, too – I read it when I was twelve.

Read Glamorama.


book recommendation - The Watchmen Alan Moore Dave Gibbons

By Alan Moore and Dave Gibbons. I’ve read plenty of graphic novels, but this is the only one I can clearly remember. My favourite part? Dr. Manhattan’s part.

Read Watchmen.

The Little Prince

book recommendation - The Little Prince

I know, it’s such a typical book to like. The rose, as irritating as she was, is my favourite character. An ex-girlfriend of mine wrote her own version of the Little Prince once and gave it to me as a present. I still have it, but don’t tell her that.

Read The Little Prince, and then watch the book get butchered into a cartoon.

The Rules of Attraction

book recommendation - Rules of Attraction Bret Easton Ellis

Also by Bret Easton Ellis. I watched the movie first (and, after reading it, prefer it slightly over the book). I was eighteen or something, and I was drunk, and some friends invited me to the movies to watch it. The first scene with the vomiting sobered me up, and the snow teardrop near the end got me drunk all over again. After the movie we drove to along the highway and the car broke down so we sat in the darkness of the car, talking about things I’ll no longer remember. We probably spoke about books. I really don’t know. The memory might not even be real.

Have a read of The Rules of Attraction, or watch the movie.

If you want to talk more about books or recommend any of your own, you can also add me on Goodreads.






small chest


flat ass


big thighs


pretty face


infinite smile


arm shaving


your money




meeting on a bridge


encouraging me to do better.






you're a cunt




It was August twenty-something four years ago, and it was hot but it was raining a little bit, and you were upset but I didn’t care. I didn’t know where you’d been and you wouldn’t tell me, and I yelled a bunch of things but you wouldn’t listen to one word. You stood up and ran and I ran after you, and you hugged me and we were out in public and people were looking and you wouldn’t stop crying. When you calmed down we found a place to sit, and we talked about things from the past: the Swarovski thing I bought you once, the four-hour drive, the time, on my birthday, when you bought me a wallet and wrote me a card and I cried. I drove you home, and that was the last time we spoke. It’s been years, and you’ve moved on and I’ve moved on several times over, but it’s as if I’ve left a large piece of me behind with you and it’s impossible for me to get it back. I wonder if you ever notice it lingering around, waiting for you to change your mind. I’m doing everything I’m supposed to do. I’m a functioning robot. But you’re there, in the background of everything in my life, dictating what I’ll think about when I sleep and wake up.



alive forever

I wonder what it would be like if I was a crack dealer. It’d be a pretty fuckin’ stressful job. Or I wonder what it would be like to be one of those heroes that people always write about. Like a Nobel Prize winner or an Emma Watson or a Michael Jordan or something. I wonder if there are heroes out there who don’t wash their hands after pissing in the toilet.

I wonder if there’s a scale out there, like in the heavens or something, that rates everyone in the world from best to absolute worst. I’d like to know who that absolute worst person is. A lot of people would probably say pedophiles or rapists are the worst. But I have a feeling the worst person would be much worse than that. He’d do things with not only with kids; he’d be into animals too. Not like puppies or horses, but like the most fucked up creatures out there, like those moths that are the size of people, or those weird spiky frog things that look like dark vaginas. Would politically correct people get angry if I assume the worst person in the world is a man?

I wonder what it would be like if I was never jealous of other people. I still don’t know who I am. It’s a corny thing to say, I know, but there you have it. This is because I was born in 1832, and I’ve pretty much been told that I will continue to live forever no matter what. I have seventeen fingers. I have seen things: the sun up close, the insides of a skull, the rapid dreams of ants. I have never become a millionaire yet I’ve never become poor. I can’t touch reality, because reality is just a word. I swam to an island once, and there have been eighteen mornings where I have folded the sky five times over. I wonder what it would be like to be you. To be in you. To be outside you. To see you for who you really are, if that will ever be possible.



Outside the balcony
Break up a bit after Easter. Lost for a while. Happy for a while. Nothing much for a while longer. April comes. Excel at work. Make a few thousand dollars. Make a few friends. Meet a few people. Learn a few new songs. Nearly complete a book. Look at photos. Buy food alone. Buy clothes alone. Buy alcohol alone. Watch a homeless woman cry one night. Smile. Pay rent. Slight sound of fireworks one evening. Stare outside the balcony. Projector screen and horror movies. Go out drinking with friend. Go out drinking with friends. Work on a novel. Work until midnight. Work until eight in the evening. Work until six in the evening. Skip work. Meet a girl who can’t speak English; grin and stare at her lips as she fakes it. Start drinking more. Make a few thousand dollars. Walk around store. Buy a few things. Go out drinking. Go to work. Fall in love with an engaged girl. Become happy for the first time in months. Become delirious. Warned by friends not to pursue it. Warned by family not to pursue it. Girl gets married. Never hear from her again. Stare outside the balcony. Go to work. Make a few thousand dollars. Watch a man cry during the train ride home. Buy some clothes. Work until midnight. Laugh at people’s clever jokes. Stare outside the balcony. Work on a Saturday. Drink with friend. Get high with a guy wearing a top hat in a cubicle. Take Viagra with a girl with nice legs. Get home twelve in the afternoon. Get home two in the afternoon. Get home six in the morning. Kiss two girls at the same time. Not exactly the same time – a few seconds after the other. Another girl, an uglier one, joins in. Shower for a long time. Look at photos. Listen to music. Buy clothes. Buy shoes. Buy clothes. Buy CDs. Buy food. Pay rent. Drink more. Start smoking. Go to work. Work on a Saturday. Work on a Sunday. Work on a Monday. Work until midnight. Listen to a woman cry over the phone in the toilets, cry about some guy. Go to church. Pray hard. Make a few thousand dollars. Have green tea with a girl who tells me her vagina smells “raw” when wet. Excel at work. Make new friends. Meet a few people. Learn a few new songs. Look at photos. Swear at someone. Nobody’s fault. Buy a motorbike. Crash the motorbike. Buy a car. Sell the car. Move out. Move in. Be inspired by something. Tell people about inspiration. Send message to ex-girlfriend. Send another message to another ex-girlfriend. Send another message to another ex-girlfriend. Tell depressed people about the power of positive thinking. Listen to music. Look at photos. Write a short story. Refuse to get drunk. Go to church. Refuse to fall asleep. Refuse to eat. Refuse to get drunk with friends. Refuse to watch a movie with a friend. Refuse to exercise. Refuse to write. Refuse to meet people. Stare outside the balcony. Go to work. Raise fist at someone at work but don’t get fired. Make a few thousand dollars. Meet girl in library. Meet girl in shopping centre while buying shoes. Meet girl in a party. Lots of tears and lots of yelling and nobody wins. Stare at drunk person on sidewalk cry before falling asleep in pile of vomit. Find a free magazine and read through it and tell everyone about it and cut out some pages and use them as inspiration. Continue writing. Refuse to drink. Become afraid of being murdered by someone or a group of people. Go to church. Pray. Pray at night. Pray after waking up. Pray before meals, but never after. Stare outside the balcony. It’s nobody’s fault. Ride a rollercoaster. Stare outside the balcony. Charity work. Stare at some guy cry while watching a movie, 12 Years a Slave. Look at photos. Friend has breakdown in front of everybody. Watch someone drive a BMW. Watch someone buy a BMW. Watch another someone buy another BMW. Refuse to sleep. Have drinks with friend; pretend to order something alcoholic. Go to work. Fireworks in the distance somewhere. Smile. Smile. Smile. Show everyone a smile. Buy clothes. Stare outside the balcony.


confetti in blue dream - short story

There’s a rumour that’s going on about the world. That it’s ending. That food is running out, that resources are running out. There’s a rumour that the government, which is more than happy to spy on people but begins arresting them if anyone reveals any of its secrets, will one day control every single thing, even our thoughts, if they aren’t already. There’s a rumour of meteors coming, of demons rising out of the earth, of aliens raping young men. There’s a rumour about the sun exploding and wars getting worse and people being racist and people being bored and people being greedy and people eventually blowing each other up until all we have left is an entire island of shit.  But none of that matters. The only thing I’ve really been caring about is where I’m going to get my money from.

I was accepted for government assistance, and the money they gave me was much more than I made while doing freelance work or from selling my books. But it didn’t feel right. I had to regularly apply for jobs, no matter what the industry and distance from home. I had to regularly drive Jude’s car to Inala and line up with a bunch of other people and meet with someone and talk about what I’d been doing with myself and if I’d been applying for jobs properly. I didn’t want to tell them anything. I didn’t want to rely on the government for money.

One morning I called Centrelink, asked them to stop sending me assistance money (they said “okay” right away) and headed to the casino. I tried to imitate what my friends did while gambling and lost about four hundred dollars. I went to the library, updated Generation End, sent some short stories to arts magazines, looked up job ads and then covered my head and slept for a while. I had this dream about Ariel and Jude, and in the dream they were flying around and Jude was naked and his eggplant shaped (and coloured) penis was massive and he was giving me the finger. Ariel was crying and so was I.

“Are you angry at me?” I asked her.

“I’ll always be angry at you, Dean. I’ll always, like, resent you.”

She hovered right in front of my eyes and held my cheeks and we almost kissed, and I watched her eyes, her battered, bruised and swollen eyes, and her pupils were glittering; pushing her warm forehead against mine, she whispered something softly, tenderly, caringly: she told me that there are things that I should still love about myself, that there are things, although miniscule, that she still loves about me, and that I should have at least one thing to show for in this world, at least one fucking thing. I told her that she was beautiful and that I was sorry. She kissed my forehead and bruised it and I woke up thinking that I pissed my pants in public.

I drove to Kangaroo Point, went for a jog and stopped and stared at the river before spitting on it. I drove to a university and found my favourite shower and showered with a bar of soap I kept in a plastic bag; afterwards I sat on a bench and watched the students for a while, waiting for something dramatic or significant to happen. When nothing happened, I drove to a luxury car dealership with my resume and asked for the marketing manager. “Listen,” I told him. “I saw your ad and thought I’d apply in person.”

“Can you do press releases?” he asked me. He was a big guy.


“Social media?”

“Yeah,” I smiled.



“CSS and PHP?” he asked.


“Media buying?”

“Yeah sure, media buying is great. Did it heaps last year.”


“Did SEO this morning.”

“Dealer Socket?”

“All the time.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You’re lying about a lot of these.”

“Well, isn’t everyone a liar in their own right?”

“No,” he said. “The people I work with are generally honest, hard working people.”

“I’ll get you a coffee,” I said. “Want a coffee? Shit, please. I’m a hard worker and I can write like hell and I’m desperate. Exploit my desperation!”

He said he was too busy for coffee, but he took my resume and smiled and said he might call me again because of my sense of humour, but just maybe. I left the dealership, did the same thing to three other businesses.  I drove to Jamie’s home and we watched DVDs (This is The End, American Psycho, Notebook) and I didn’t tell her that I’d been sleeping in Jude’s BMW for the past few weeks. She put her hand on my lap, and I looked at her, and she looked at me, and I opened my mouth but decided to close it again, and she sighed, and I drank double the amount of wine that she did.



NEWS: My book of short stories, Surface Children, recently received a #1 and #2 ranking on Amazon’s Kindle store. GET A COPY.


New Year Fireworks - Generation End

As I stumbled around Jude’s pebbled driveway at the end of the 2012 countdown and as some guy kept playing “Love Will Tear Us Apart Again” from his iPhone 5 I thought this: it feels exactly the same as last year.

2012 ended too quickly. I wasted a shitload of time but still managed to be productive during some of it. I began writing a book of short stories and was even able to type out a few thousand words. For now, I’m naming it Surface Children. I’ve written a handful of stories so far and I’m only happy with two of them. One story is about an angry pregnant girl; another story is about Los Angeles Angie; another story is about Siem Reap; another story is about some guy who steals a girl from some other guy; one story is about Eva, another is about Jude, another is about Vail.

Anyway enough about that. The rest of the party ended without a bang. There was no vomiting girl and there was no crying guy and there was no argument. There were, however, a bunch of people hunched over their iPhones, texting other people or writing on their Facebook walls.

I asked a few friends what their New Year resolutions were. All of them said they didn’t have any, because whenever they set goals for themselves, they never ended up doing them. That had me thinking: what makes up a fulfilled life?

As I headed for my car, I wondered what 2013 had in store for me. Maybe it’ll be a good year. Maybe it’ll be an amazing year. Maybe there’ll be no dramas. Maybe no jobs will be lost. Maybe there’ll be no more recession. Maybe there’ll be nothing to protest about. Maybe there’ll be no more shootings or natural disasters or celebrity deaths or abusive drunk people on the street. Maybe all questions will be answered. Maybe every writer in the world will wake up one day and realise that they have nothing to write about anymore.


Some time ago I wrote a “fictional” love story, which you can download for free if you subscribe here.

If you’ve read it, then you would’ve noticed the blurry images behind the text. Although some of those images are stock images, the majority of them are photoshopped images of pictures I took myself.

This is a picture of an old love who I’ve rarely written about. We were parked somewhere in broad daylight and she was lying on my lap (with her clothes on) and I took a photo of her.

She liked a lot of things, like drinking and dancing and Anne Hathaway. I was a terrible boyfriend to her and, while not crying, she broke up with me on Christmas Eve.

I took this photo when I was on top of some kind of mountain and intoxicated. At least I think I took this photo. Come to think of it, I probably didn’t take this photo.

Here’s a picture of Vail. She was lying on my bed and reading A Clockwork Orange while I was writing something. I turned around, looked her over, told her that she had nice legs and took this photo.

I took this photo in a club in Melbourne while drunk and heartbroken over the receptionist. It’s a photo of a friend holding a glass of whiskey on top of a glowing box. Clubs love glowing boxes.

This is a photo of the receptionist, who I was horribly in love with for too long. It was her birthday and we were in a hotel and she looked up at me while holding a Polaroid camera I bought for her. I took a photo of her with my phone.

The rest of the images are stock images. The story itself was inspired from a lot of things: moments in friends’ lives, moments in my life: a close friend who was beaten up by her boyfriend; being young while watching sex scenes from movies like Jerry Maguire with a girl who was even younger than I was; threatening to throw something, and then throwing something, at a girl named Madison and her daring me to punch her; finding out that Eva was happily with someone else; realising, while laughing with friends about how they took turns with a chubby girl in her bedroom, how screwed up and real the world can become once you leave childhood; a friend’s lesbian friend becoming pregnant; losing love; watching a video of a woman being stoned to death while a number of onlookers recorded it with their mobile phones; kissing two or three girls in a bar; the repetition of mistakes; the repetition of the same drink; the repetition of friendships; the repetition of relationships; the repetition of a lot of things; and, I suppose, that after all of this, the secret hope that everything that ever happened and will happen in my life will cinematically dissolve into some sort of Hollywood Happy Ending.